Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit,
His waxen wings did mount above his reach,
And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow;
For, falling to a devilish exercise,
And glutted now with learning's golden gifts,
He surfeits upon cursed necromancy;
Nothing so sweet as magic is to him,
Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss:
And this the man that in his study sits.
: Dr. Faustus (Marlowe)

Monday, May 29, 2006

Zen

Amidst whirlpools of dustDervishing in the deeps waters Spiraling up columns of sapphiric soulsThat are unknowing and without hopeExpending in gaudy glitter masksWhile the washed is ignored, laughed at or stoned…There is death of aspiration, burial of illusions, End of disillusionment, transforming the unseeing and the dying,Into iridescent contortionists with acrobatic flair

To leave without a traceIn that onyx instanceIf given an inch to move or takeTranslucent mould of me it shall be youLike the sway that induces whispering in dry flowersI would be invisible but withinTransparent essence of you will be me